


Kings Are High

by hit_the_books



Series: Blood and Gold [6]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Crying Sam, Drugs, F/M, Fluff and Smut, Orgasm Denial, Porn With Plot, Porn with Feelings, Reader-Insert, Soulless Reader, Substance Abuse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-29
Updated: 2015-04-29
Packaged: 2018-03-26 08:47:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 10,149
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3844573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hit_the_books/pseuds/hit_the_books
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>This part takes place during season nine episode "The Purge".</p>
<p>You're an alchemist, perhaps one of the most gifted of this age. Living with Sam and Dean in the Bunker for several months, the three of you have built a tenuous relationship together. But things are not easy.</p>
<p>Owing you for a lot of gold, you hit the road with Crowley and head in to the belly of the American Dream, without Sam and Dean's knowledge.</p>
<p>Will you make it out of the Las Vegas Strip in one piece? Will Crowley stay around long enough to pick up the inevitable pieces? Read on to find out.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The Plan

> We were somewhere around Barstow on the edge of the desert when the drugs began to take hold.

_Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream_ , Hunter S. Thompson

Sam had once complained that he couldn’t read most of your notes. You’d been sat in the Bunker’s library, of course, scribbling away, pen to paper, filling up page after page in your notebook, flicking through pages of lore, written mainly in enochian in the particular book you were checking through at the time. Sam had noticed that you weren’t writing in English, Enochian or even Latin or some recognisable language. Instead this part of your notes had been entirely in a cipher, one taught to alchemists as soon as they began apprenticing. Quotes were written out as is, but your own thought, ideas and interpretations of lore were in this ancient cipher, passed down and evolved from a time not long after the fall of the Tower of Babel.

You weren’t about to tell Sam the nature of your notes at that time, instead you’d just said that was how you always wrote notes, but Sam had pushed and pushed further for an explanation. And that’s when you’d first lost your temper with him inside the Bunker.

“Look, Sam, are you an alchemist?”

“No, but-”

“No, you’re not even an apprentice! So, unless you suddenly want to take up the art, I am not explaining my notes to you,” your grandfather’s teaching rang out in your words.

“Surely it’s just a few notes?” Sam persisted.

You looked up at Sam, hurt that he would belittle your work so. True, you’d never fully explained the ins and outs of alchemy to the guys since you came to live in the Bunker, but neither Sam nor Dean was in a position to know. To read the cipher, to try to understand without the right preparation, without the right training, was dangerous and unless they were suddenly going to stop being hunters and learn what had taken you years to master after going through college, you weren’t about to let Sam even have a whiff of what you were writing.

Looking up into Sam’s questing eyes, that day in the library, you knew you had to explain yourself to him, but had to imprint on him the idea that he couldn’t know what you knew.

“These aren’t just some notes, Sam… do you want your brain melting out between your ears?”

“Um…”

“Because that’s what will happen if I just read these to you, direct, now. You may think that alchemy is just throwing things together in a flask and it’s done, but have you ever stopped to wonder why you can’t just do that? I know you’ve tried copying me from the supplies the Men of Letters left behind and that it’s not worked.”

“I just thought it was because the ingredients were stale,” Sam replied, hurt tinging his voice.

“It’s because you’re not an alchemist. Look there are reasons why I don’t have to utter words and offer up prayers to monsters when I do what I do and it is a part of who I am. Part of what I became when I apprenticed to my grandfather. Being an alchemist is more than just a title.”

“I don’t…”

At that moment you stood up and cupped Sam’s chiselled face in your hands and made him look deeply into your eyes.

“Look at me,” you’d ordered.

“Y/N…”

“I said: _look at me_.”

Sam gazed deeply into your eyes and for the briefest moment, you could tell that he sensed the indescribable vastness of the sacrifices you’d made. Of the knowledge you had fought for. The horrors and wonders you had seen. The secrets you had to keep.

Letting go of Sam’s face, you slumped back down to your seat, turned slightly towards Sam. Breathing deep, pained breaths. Sam knelt down in front of you, swallowing hard, stroking your right cheek with his massive left hand.

“Y/N… I’m sorry for pushing you. I think I understand. But all those books on alchemy we have here? They’re not in this language.”

“Useless, still, unless you’ve been apprenticed. Those are books written from stolen knowledge, obtained probably at great cost,” you explained, stroking his face and feeling the roughness of his five o’clock shadow.

“It really isn’t like being a witch, is it?” Sam asked, making a comparison you hadn’t heard since that fateful day back at the motel.

“It really isn’t.”

*

And now, here you are, waiting just outside the Bunker, sun shining, the guys only ten minutes away, your right foot tapping as you try to be patient for the King of Hell. Your notes are burned into your mind and you know who or what you are looking for, know where you need to go. Vegas and The Strip was calling, but you need back-up.

Of course you smell Crowley before you see, the reek of sulphur mixing with the sweet strong pang of scotch and a hint of desperation - a reminder of the human blood Crowley has been shooting up with for months now. A part of you thinks maybe you could help him, but you let that thought drift away as his voice washes over you.

“So, road trip is it?”

Without looking at him, you nod, waiting for him to get closer. You listen to his shoes tap over the road and you turn to face him, giving Crowley a false smile.

“Wheels?” He asks impatiently.

“This way,” you reply and begin to walk up the road from the Bunker. The door to your new home is locked up safe, the key stowed in your chest inside the car. As you move, you feel the Philosopher’s Stone and its silver nest bounce against your breasts, moving easily under your loose top.

In a way, you’re surprised that Dean hadn’t remarked about the convertible that had been parked not so far away from his front door. It was a classic red Chevy convertible. A decade younger than Baby. The top is already down.

Climbing into the driver’s seat, you wait for Crowley to sit beside you. Instead he stands in front of the car, the edge of his recent blood binge clearly beginning to wear off and a bit of his old self starting to come through.

“I think we need to discuss terms,” Crowley calls to you.

“Okay: you still owe me for that last lot of gold, so you’re coming with me to Las Vegas and you’re going to help me in my endeavours to obtain a particular item, which we will obtain, and then we’re both coming back here.”

“Do Squirrel and Moose know you’re out playing with me?”

“No.”

Crowley frowns to himself, before striding all the way to the convertible and getting in on the front passenger side. Settling down on the leather seats, you feel your heart start to beat slightly faster, as a part of your brain tries to remind you how crazy your plan is, how Sam and Dean will probably react if they ever find out about what you’re doing.

You turn on the ignition and start pulling away from the kerb. You’ll be at the Strip before dawn tomorrow. You notice Crowley following your gaze as you peek over at the glove compartment for a moment.

“In case you’re wondering,” you say as the Chevy picks up speed, “we’re well stocked for this trip.”


	2. Doubts

 

 

> “I tell you, my man, this is the American Dream in action! We’d be fools not to ride this strange torpedo all the way out to the end.”

_Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream_ , Hunter S. Thompson

Crowley knew that he could just up and leave any moment he wanted to. Y/N hadn’t put a single devil’s trap on or inside the car, but as the warm air of the highway rushed past their faces and he looked out at the parched lands they were flying past, a part of him was glad to be away from the hotel room he’d been mostly holed up in. But still, as the tires turned and Y/N kept to herself, he could feel the gnaw inside him, the need for a pick-me-up. As if reading his mind, but Crowley knew better than that, Y/N said:

“Go on, open up the glove box. There’s a vial in there just for you. It’s not blood, but it’ll take the edge off.”

Crowley opened up the glove box and saw one of several vials filled with a strange green liquid. There were several different vials there as well.

“One of the greens,” Y/N said, not taking her eyes off the road.

Crowley reached down and picked up the nearest green filled glass vial and closed the glove box. He regarded the substance with suspicion, gently unstoppering it and giving it a quick sniff.

“Just swallow the lot,” Y/N said.

Putting more trust in Y/N than he had in anyone for quite some time, Crowley put the tiny glass vial to his lips and gulped down the liquid it contained. It felt like he was swallowing ice, the stuff was so cool as it flowed down his throat. Discarding the vial, Crowley blinked and rubbed his eyes a little, already beginning to feel a bit more relaxed. After a few minutes, he eased himself back in the seat, putting his left arm along the top. He felt good. Though the sky seemed pinker than he remembered.

“What was in that bottle?”

“Not holy water.”

“Thanks, I think.”

Still not taking her eyes off the road, Y/N asked, “What’s it like being the King of Hell?”

Crowley hadn’t been expecting that. And he tried to remember the last time anyone had sounded so sincere when speaking to him. Hadn’t sounded like they were afraid or wanted to stab him in his heart.

“Tiring,” he answered simply.

Crowley wasn’t surprised when Y/N didn’t respond to that. And they drove on for a few more miles in silence, reaching empty road. In the distance, he could see a figure walking alongside the highway, thumb out: a hitchhiker with one lone rucksack.

“Should we give them a lift?” Y/N asked.

“Is it part of the plan?”

“No, but they don’t smell like a demon or an angel or anything else not human. I’m sure we’ll be fine,” Y/N said confidently.

“Okay, then.” Crowley answered and Y/N began slowing the car down as they approached the figure of a college-age looking young man.

As the Chevy rolled up beside the man, Y/N called over, “Do you want a lift?”

“You heading by Denver?” The hitchhiker asked.

“We will be,” Y/N replied.

“Then yes.”

The hitchhiker took that as his cue and with well rehearsed experience, deftly got into the convertible, settling down on the back seat of the Chevy.

“Tom,” said the hitchhiker putting his right hand out for a shake over the seats. Crowley looked at the young man’s outreached hand and gave him a discouraging look. Tom quickly put his hand down.

“Our driver today is Y/N and I am Crowley. Now, shall we get back on the road?”

*

Half an hour later, and with little to no conversation, Crowley licked his lips and was about to ask Y/N about what she plans to do once they reach Vegas, when he saw lots of small, dark shapes flying towards them in the sky, which wa even pinker still. A thin veil of sweat gripped Crowley’s forehead and he felt a small sense of dread rise up in him.

As the shapes in the sky drew closer, Crowley heard himself say, “Are those bats heading towards us?”

Y/N looked up, and Crowley is annoyed when Tom’s head pokes between the two of them, as they all look up into the sky as Y/N slows the Chevy down. They three of them stared up into the sky, transfixed.

“Those look like bats,” Y/N stated.

Crowley heard Tom audibly gulp.

“I’m not hallucinating?” Crowley asked, remembering the bottle from earlier.

He didn’t like how long it took for Y/N to respond, the little shapes getting closer and bigger. “Yes and no. They were probably a hallucination about a mile ago, but now I’d say they’re very real.”

Tom began to freak out and grabbed his rucksack before jumping out of the now stopped Chevy. He began to run away from the approaching leather winged mass.

“Y/N…” Crowley growled, making her look at him. She turned and pursed her lips, thinking.

“Open up the glove box and… take one of the pink ones.”

The bats were closing in. Crowley wrenched the compartment open and started to root around for a pink coloured vial. Finding one, he was about to unstopper it when the bats finally reached them and passed overhead, their screeching loud, their wings many and deafening. But the bats ignored them, instead concentrating on the moving target of Tom, who was now a quarter of a mile behind them.

Both turning to watch the bat’s progress, Y/N didn’t say a word or even react when the bats reached Tom and easily lifted his body into the air. Crowley is caught between watching the macabre scene play out behind them and watching Y/N’s lack of reaction. As the bats began to draw blood, clawing Tom apart, Crowley remembered the vial and unstoppered it, glugging down the liquid, which was warmer than he expected. The stuff worked quickly and the bats vanished into thin air, leaving the remains of Tom crash to the ground.

There wasn’t much left of the hitchhiker. Turning to Y/N, Crowley asked in a low voice, “Did you know that was going to happen?”

Y/N faced Crowley and licked her lips anxiously. “To be honest, I figured you might see something, but not that. Obviously I got the dose wrong, you are a demon after all.”

“Clearly,” Crowley replied. “Well, get driving. I still want to check in this side of dawn.”

Y/N flipped the ignition on and put her foot down on the accelerator. Crowley studied Y/N’s face as she began to drive again, a tinge of concern trickling into his being.


	3. Into Babylon

 

 

> But our trip was different. It was a classic affirmation of everything right and true and decent in the national character.

_Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream_ , Hunter S. Thompson

Crowley hadn’t asked what it was you’d snorted eight hours ago so that you could keep on driving and you appreciated that he wasn’t prying into that side of things. But you needed to keep driving, you had to keep driving. The hitchhiker had been an unnecessary distraction, you were convinced of that now, the small amount of guilt you’d felt having already passed. Now as the tires of the Chevy guided you true, you could see the lights of the Las Vegas Strip glowing in greeting.

Things were quieter than they would have been four hours earlier, with most of the tourists now in bed, but as you let the cold desert air help keep you awake, you scout for the hotel you had a room reservation for. The Bellagio was your target and when you found the signs, you got some looks of surprise from a valet as you pulled up outside, dawn hardly beginning to claw through the sky.

“Hello, I’m Lady Christina Turner, you’ve been expecting me.” You say in your best British accent.

The valet’s sleepy eyes suddenly widen in realisation, and he motions to someone unseen inside and a horde of staff stream out of the front doors, as you pop the trunk and hand over the keys to another valet. You ignore Crowley as you get out of the car, go round and grab the chest from the boot, before the staff can get to it, but Crowley is quickly at your side as you are led inside the opulent space of the Bellagio.

“Lady Turner?” Crowley hisses in your ear as he walks closely beside you through the foyer and towards an elevator.

“I practically shit gold,” you hiss back, “and we need to be high profile for this to work.”

*

As soon as the doors to your room closed and it was just you and Crowley inside, the King of Hell rounds on you, anger clearly in his eyes. For a moment, you wish you had managed to persuade him to take one of the purple vials before hitting the Strip, but that was all bundled away in the glove box. Now, you turn away from Crowley, ignoring him, as you open your suitcase - you try to see if you have anything suitable to wear for the coming evening, more than twelve hours away. You sense Crowley standing closely behind you as you determine that none of what you’ve brought with you is just right for the job.

As you stand up straight, Crowley grabs onto the tops of your arms and spins you around so that you’re looking straight into his eyes.

“Tell me the full plan, now, or I’m cashing out,” he growls, pulling you closer so that your faces are almost touching. You haven’t been this close to Crowley since that time in the restroom at the steakhouse, which was less than a week ago, but seems a million years.

“The mark is the owner of one of the big casinos here. He’s a demon, goes by the name Dee. Not on anyone’s side, I might add, and he’s got a little something in his private quarters that may help me in my search for a cure to lycanthropy,” you explain.

Crowley has yet to let you go, so you figure he wants to hear more. “We’re going to head into the casino once evening hits, lose a little and then start winning big on our games of choice, and we’ll get his attention enough. You’ll take the lead when we get asked to meet him, saying who you are, stroking his ego a bit and I’ll nip off and locate what we’re after.

“Then, later that night, we head back, steal it and get the hell out of dodge.”

Crowley still hasn’t let go of your arms.

“Uh, Crowley?”

A few more minutes pass and then Crowley gently lets go of your arms and sits down on a soft couch just metres away. “You want us to rip-off Dee?”

“Yep.”

“I always thought that prick was too stuck up his own arse. Fine. I’m with you, but you need an outfit that fits Lady Turner.”

*

Crowley allowed you to get some sleep, but once it was about ten in the morning, he got room service to bring up breakfast for you. Working your way through your second croissant, while still sat in bed, you watch Crowley flipping through the latest Vogue, doing research you assume, while sat on one of the many couches that occupy the penthouse.

Just as you push the breakfast tray out of the way, Crowley is suddenly standing beside you. You can’t help thinking back to several hours earlier when your lips were almost touching.

“Refreshed, are we?” Crowley asks, his voice just its usual gravelly self.

Nodding, you’re not sure what to expect next. You blink and Crowley is suddenly sat beside you on the opposite side of the bed, leaning into the pillows with his hands behind his head. He’s on top of the covers, suited, but you’re naked underneath.

“So, Moose and Squirrel. You managed to convince them to share,” Crowley stated, still lounging on the bed.

“Your point?” You ask, thinking it’s none of Crowley’s business.

“I guess it’s hard to imagine them reaching any agreement at the moment. You know.”

“Oh, I know. But what I don’t know is why it’s any of your business, Crowley.”

Crowley turns his face towards you and you return the stare. “Because, love, I don’t need those two any more fucked up than they already are. So, for the sake of balance, and getting through the crises we face beyond our current escapade, I want you to promise me that you won’t go breaking their hearts.”

“Fine,” you state. “Now, are we going shopping, or what?”

 


	4. Like A Glove

 

> The man was getting ugly, but suddenly his eyes switched away. He was staring at something else…

_Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream_ , Hunter S. Thompson

Crowley was sat back in a dressing area chair normally occupied by bored boyfriends, fiances or husbands, waiting for Y/N to emerge in the third outfit she was trying on in the fourth boutique they’d been to. Y/N’s tastes were less discerning than his own, and he knew Y/N would have settled for the first outfit she’d tried on, but Crowley was determined that Y/N would look like she was definitely Lady Turner.

He could have used his powers to change Y/N in and out of the clothes with a mere thought, but considering that they had time to kill before that evening, there was little point. Flicking through web pages on his iPhone, Crowley had investigated the online trail Y/N had left for herself, so that her identity was believable. She’d bought the title, of course, but it looked like she had bought the estate that came with it as well, back in England.

“How about this?” Y/N called, stepping out of the privacy of the changing room.

Crowley looked up from his phone and at Y/N. The dress she had on now, while complimenting her shape, showed off her anti-possession tattoo just a little too much. They needed something that didn’t plunge at the front. Crowley waved a hand and one of the boutique assistants, a short woman with short black hair, appeared beside him in less than a second.

“Do you have an evening dress that is open at the back, but doesn’t plunge in the front?” Crowley asked, his fashion expertise coming into its own.

“Several, I shall bring them in.” The assistant bustled off to another part of the boutique. Crowley waved at Y/N and she begrudgingly trooped back inside the changing room.

The fourth dress wasn’t quite there, but the fifth, as Y/N called for Crowley’s attention and he looked up at her, the fourth fitted like a glove. Crowley felt a lump in his throat form as he took in the way the red silk-like material clung to Y/N’s braless breasts just so, and as she turned, the way the fabric tapered beautifully open to the lower curve of her back. A single, thin strip of material between the top sides of the open back was helping to keep the dress on. Crowley imagined what it would be like to snap that strand and make the dress slide off of Y/N in one swift movement.

It wasn’t until Y/N cleared her throat and tried asking Crowley for an opinion, again, that he snapped out of his daydream. “Well,” Y/N asked, “Please say this is the dress.”

Crowley swallowed and replied, “It fits you like a glove, we’ll take it.”

“Oh,” Y/N called to the assistant that had been helping them out, “Would you please help me pick out a nice purse and shoes to go with this as well?”

“Of course,” the assistant replied as she strode past Crowley and went to help Y/N pick out some accessories.

Crowley sank down into the couch, now alone as he could be in the boutique. He couldn’t stop thinking about the vision that Y/N had been, and he didn’t know what he should do. Being the King of Hell, normally he’d just taken what he wanted, but with all the human blood he’d been shooting up with, and having told Y/N that he didn’t want her to go breaking Sam and Dean’s hearts…

“Fuck,” Crowley muttered to himself as he buried his face in his hands and tried hard not to think about the things that he wanted to do to Y/N back in the penthouse.

*

Crowley spent most of the afternoon watching Y/N put together a series of vials, bottles and pouches of varying substances that she stored in her new purse alongside her credit cards. She wasn’t in the dress while she worked, instead in another loose fitting top and some baggy pants that hung off her hips on the left slide, slightly, clearly a little too big for her.

He didn’t want to screw the job up, Crowley knew that much, but he was finding it increasingly difficult to be alone in the same room as Y/N. There was a building tension across his forehead as he used his mental energies to think of anything but bending Y/N over one of the tables and taking her there and then.

What made things even more tense was he could swear that he kept catching Y/N stealing looks at him when she thought he wouldn’t notice. But he wasn’t sure. There was just enough human blood left in him to stop him from doing what he desperately wanted to do, and so he decided to fixate on how he’d handle the conversation with Dee when it came to it.

‘Obviously,’ Crowley thought to himself, ‘I don’t want to bring him over to thinking about Abaddon, that prick has been out of the game long enough and I want it to stay that way… but what the hell can we talk about?’

Y/N shifted in the seat she was sat in while mixing up her compounds at a nearby table and Crowley followed the brief movement closely.

‘Right… so I’ll chat to him about… Making a new hell. Yes, just business,’ Crowley thought as he tried to ignore Y/N.

“Okay, I’m done here. I’m just going to get cleaned up and dressed,” Y/N said as she stood up from her seat.

Crowley waved his hand to dismiss her and heard Y/N giggle quietly to herself as she strode towards one of the en-suites. For a moment, just before the bathroom door closed behind Y/N, he thought he smelled pig’s blood, but Crowley decided he was imagining things.


	5. At The Tables

 

> But now--even before the spectacle got under way--there were signs that we might be losing control of the situation.

_Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream_ , Hunter S. Thompson

When Crowley first laced his fingers through yours, it was as you were shown to the tables in Dee’s casino. The hall was gorgeous and busy. Clientele all dressed like a million dollars, and all clearly worth far more than that. Though you knew the necklace around your neck was worth more than any of their bank accounts. You shivered slightly from Crowley’s touch, but allowed yourself to be led over to a discreet, shielded corner, where several poker tables were laid out. Crowley was then led over to the game tables and craps specifically.

Eying up the tables in front of you, you felt a little out of your depth, having only played poker on apps, but you put on a big smile as an attendant waves you over to a game that is looking for players. You put your purse down and take out some chips, easily buying your way into the beginning of the game.

*

“Cute,” you mutter to yourself as you put down four kings and finally end the dreams of those who remained at the table. Over the course of the hour or more that you’d been playing, you knew your ‘luck’ had been more than average and you hoped Crowley wasn’t overdoing things. Exchanging your winnings for chips of higher value, you walk away richer than when you had started, considering the buy in had been $50,000.

Now, looking for Crowley at the game tables, you soon spot him, running hot on one of the craps tables, a crowd gathering.

“He’s already lost a hundred thousand,” said one patron standing near the table as you approach it, “what makes him think he can win it back and then some?”

Reaching Crowley’s elbow, the King of Hell still shaking his latest hand, he glances to you and asks sweetly, “Won’t you be a dear and give them a blow?” He holds his closed hand in front of you and oblige, drawing in breath and then gently blowing over his skin. He then puts his attention back on the table and throws down his dice.

You don’t get a chance to see the final outcome, because the moment the dice stop rolling, the roar that erupts around the table from the crowd is so loud that you accidentally stumble into Crowley who reflexively draws you close to him. Before you know it, you’ve got the King of Hell’s tongue doing battle with your mouth and you feel very light headed. It’s the briefest moment and as Crowley gently brings you back to Earth, you watch in a daze as he collects his winnings and ushers you over to the bar.

A dirty martini appears in front of you and without thinking you swing the whole glass back and motion for another one from the bar tender. Crowley sips at his.

“What was that?” You ask, cradling the second drink.

“Just a victory dance, of sorts,” Crowley replies, trying to sound innocent but inevitably failing at doing so.

“Tongues?” You hiss.

“Had to be convincing for the cameras, darling,” Crowley whispers back before taking another sip of the dirty martini he had ordered for himself.

Sighing, you ask, “Do you think we got Dee’s attention?”

Crowley doesn’t move as he replies, “Definitely,” and finishes his drink.

A twenty-something guy, dressed in a well fitting, expensive, suit, appears in the reflection of the mirror behind the bar, and you gently swivel your seat round to face him.

“Lady Turner,” the young man says, his voice refined and easy. “The casino owner, would very much like to have the company of yourself and your partner in his personal rooms. Would you care to follow?”

Noticing out of the corner of your eyes the well dressed, well muscled, security guards closing in on the pair of you, you succeed in not freaking out and reply, “We would be honoured to meet with the owner, please.”

Coming down from your bar stool, Crowley holds out his left arm and you hook your right through it and follow your escort. The way to the elevator is short, and you watch the escort’s movements closely, noting the swipe card and memorising the pin he enters to take the casino elevator all the way to the top floor of the casino and Dee’s private quarters.

The escort stands in front of you and Crowley as the elevator climbs the building’s floors. You gently jostle Crowley’s arm and motion to the swipe card clipped to your escort’s belt. Crowley nods in acknowledgement, and as you reach the top floor, the swipe card ends up in your purse before the elevator doors open.

It was a short walk to one of Dee’s lounges and the man/demon himself was standing, waiting for you as you enter the room. He’s dressed in a light grey suit, cut sharp, blue silk shirt, blood red tie. The body of the man he is possessing couldn’t have been older than thirty.

“Lady Turner,” Dee beams stepping over to you and grasping your left hand in both of his, as he bows and kisses it. You try to ignore the extra scent of sulphur, on top of Crowley’s, now bothering you.

Stepping away, Dee then turns his attention to Crowley. “And Crowley, long time no see,” he puts his right hand out and shakes Crowley’s right. “How’s business?”

“Good, good, actually, though there were a few opportunities I was hoping we could talk about,” Crowley responds.

“Sorry to be a pain,” you say before the conversation can really get started.

Dee seems to immediately understand what you need and waves a hand. Another well dressed young man appears and says, “This way.” You follow him, hoping he is taking you to the bathroom.

As you see your prize on the horizon, you hurry past him and lock yourself inside. You hear your new escort come to a standstill outside the room and you put the toilet lid down before sitting on it and staring at the marble opulence that surrounds you. Swiftly, you open up your purse and dig around for a vial containing a variation of the mixture you used back on Eleanor’s farm. Only this one is made for dealing with living things. Having smelt no sulphur on your escort you go for the vial made for humans, and quickly chug down the mixture. Flushing the loo and running the tap, you collect your purse and head back out of the bathroom.

The escort smiles at you and is about to start leading you back to Dee’s lounge when you “accidentally” bump into him and grip his right hand. “Sorry,” you quickly apologise, trying to make sense of the images and memories flooding your own mind, making speech difficult, “I might have... had a little too... much to drink.”

“No apologies necessary Lady Turner, let’s get you back to Mr Crowley,” the escort says, oblivious to you now rifling through his memories of Dee’s rooms as you walk.

Returning to the lounge you announce that maybe you’ve had a little too much to drink and would like to go back to your rooms.

“Of course,” Crowley simpers, “if you’ll excuse us, Dee?”

“Certainly,” replies the demon, giving you a sweet, but unknowing smile. The escort that took you to the bathroom takes you both to the elevator and, head heavy, you ride down.

Crowley sorts out exchanging your winnings before gently ushering you from the casino, knowing full well that you’re not drunk, and gently walks you back to The Bellagio.

*

“What was that?” Crowley growls as you massage your temples while sat on a couch back in your rooms.

“That was me getting the information we need,” you reply. “Mescaline, mixed with a few other choice ingredients. Let’s you in, so to speak.”

“Are you telling me that you read that hot young thing’s mind?”

“Pretty much and there’s only one safe on that floor and it’s in his bedroom. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ve got some prep work to do: we’re hitting him tonight.”


	6. Ocean’s Two

 

> “You drive,” he said. “I think there’s something wrong with me.”

_Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream_ , Hunter S. Thompson

Crowley had noted that Y/N had not closed the door to the bedroom fully when she went to get changed. From his position on the couch he was lounging on, Crowley was able to relish in the sight of Y/N slowly, daintily removing the impossibly expensive dress she had been wearing, before pulling on a bra, and then black combat trousers and a tight black t-shirt. Those brief moments where Y/N had been wearing almost nothing were worth it, Crowley thought as he turned his attention to his phone and began ringing up some of his followers to see how business was going.

His head was feeling the clearest it had in days, with no human blood having passed his lips in over a day. A few quick calls, and Crowley felt like things were going his way, as Y/N opened up the bedroom doors and strode in with her wooden chest. Crowley noticed the hint of silver around Y/N’s neck, the stone hidden under her t-shirt, the stone’s bump hidden below Y/N’s breasts.

Before he could be caught looking, Crowley turned away and went over to the small bar laid out in the corner of the room, not a mini-bar, and opened up a bottle of scotch and poured himself a glass. Turning his eyes back towards Y/N, he noticed her pulling a wicked looking syringe and hypodermic needle, in a see-through case, out of the chest, as well as a spray bottle filled with some vile looking liquid.

“Y/N, what’s that?” Crowley asked, an animalistic sense of fear gripping the pit of his stomach in ways he didn’t think were still possible.

“Nothing,” Y/N replied, stowing the items in a bag small shoulder bag. “I just need to head out for a bit. I’ll be back soon.”

Crowley watched as Y/N left through the door to the penthouse. It was the first time she had tried to be apart from him, like truly apart, since their whole crazy journey had started. Putting the scotch down, Crowley knew he needed to find out what Y/N was doing.

Giving her a head start, Crowley could tell that Y/N was making for the hotel garage.

*

When he finally made his appearance, the scene that was playing out was not one he would have imagined. Hiding behind a pillar, he watched Y/N as she stood in front of a guy who had the distinct air of being a fallen angel.

“I thought you needed my help,” said the angel. Crowley could tell the thing was confused.

“I do and the best way you can help me right now is if you leave your vessel for say an hour or so and then come back to it,” Crowley heard Y/N say.

“I don’t understand.”

Crowley watched as Y/N pulled the spray bottle out of her bag. “Do you know what this stuff is?”

“No, I do not.”

“Well then believe me when I say that this stuff will hurt worse than holy oil set on fire.”

Crowley couldn’t believe what he was hearing, but he wasn’t about to step in and stop Y/N’s play.

“Don’t make me use it on you, just leave your vessel for a while and then you can have him back, if he still wants you,” Y/N ordered. But instead the angel lunged towards Y/N. Crowley thought he would have to step in until he heard the screams and saw the blotches bubbling over the angel’s skin.

“Get out of him, or you’ll feel more pain.”

Instinctively, Crowley covered his eyes as bright light flashed through the garage. When he uncovered them, he saw the vessel passed out on the concrete, and Y/N sticking the wicked hypodermic into the top right side of the vessel’s neck, the familiar glow of angelic grace being drawn into the needle.

It didn’t take long for Y/N to gather an amount that she seemed satisfied with. Stowing her kit away, Crowley watched from his hiding place as Y/N checked that the vessel was still breathing before getting up and walking away. Remembering that he was meant to be back in their penthouse suite, Crowley returned to the rooms.

*

When Y/N returned, she ignored Crowley and locked herself in the main bedroom with her chest. Crowley heard a mortar and pestle at work and metal scraping on glass, but he didn’t dare go into the room. Seeing what Y/N had done to that angel was freaking him out more than he realised something like that could.

“She’s just a human…” Crowley muttered to himself as he poured himself his fifth glass of scotch and threw back in one go. But he knew Y/N was beginning to remind him of…

For a moment, he turned his iPhone screen on and displayed Moose’s number. He was torn. Then he heard the sound of the bedroom door opening and he put his phone back in his jacket pocket.

“Ready?” Y/N asked, bag hanging by her hip.

*

Crowley stood back, as Y/N ninja'd her way through the back entrance to Dee’s casino, subduing staff and electronic security systems with a dizzying array of liquids and powders. He didn’t know what affect any of this crap would have on him, waiting for it to clear as he followed behind Y/N. Once they reached one of the elevators inside, Y/N pulled out the swipe card and put it in a slot beside the elevator’s security panel and keyed in a code. It worked and they headed on up.

Of course part of Crowley knew things were being too easy. He could feel it in his literary agent’s bones: the sense of foreboding, of walking into a trap - it was like walking into a Lee Child novel. Dee was probably on to them already, but Crowley was anxiously interested in seeing what little trick Y/N had clearly been working on for him.

Reaching Dee’s floor, Crowley hung back as more powder and potions flew from Y/N’s hands. The main corridor was soon filled with the slumped, unconscious bodies of Dee’s employees.  But before they could get to the bedroom, that was when the heavy help arrived: five demons that were on Dee’s payroll.

Crowley didn’t put up a fight, but cringed when he saw Y/N take a strong blow to the back of her head and crumple to the floor.

Once it was clear that Crowley wasn’t going to put up any resistance, several of the demons led him towards one of the building’s main stairwell and began the short climb to the roof. Another demon carried Y/N slung over his shoulder. The bag was still around her.

Reaching the slightly more chill late night desert air, Crowley watched as Y/N was dumped at the feet of Dee, as he sat on a stone garden seat in what was an immense rooftop garden.

“Sentimentalist, are we?” Crowley cooed as Dee’s thugs stepped away from him and Crowley indicated their lush surroundings. Then Crowley felt that he couldn’t move any further and looked down at the devil’s trap chiseled into the stone slabs that formed much of the rooftop garden

“No, but one does need somewhere to think and reflect. Crowley, I don’t know what you’ve gotten yourself involved in, but I think it’s time I gave Abaddon a call,” Dee said with disappointment apparent in his voice. “Would one of you be so kind as to dispose Lady Turner over the side of the roof? Suicide should be an easy one to explain away.”

The demon that had carried Y/N up to the garden, picked her again. Crowley watched as the demon carried Y/N’s still body to the side of the casino’s roof and then heaved her over so that her body would plummet to the strip below.

“I hate to break it to you, Dee, but that was probably the worst thing you could have done. Lady Turner is going to be royally pissed with you,” Crowley stated, now buying for time.


	7. Saving Grace

 

> What were we doing here? What was the meaning of this trip? Did I actually have a big red convertible out there on the street?

_Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream_ , Hunter S. Thompson

You’re not sure if it’s the feeling of your bones knitting back together again, or the screams that pull you back to yourself. But as you climb up from the bloody mess you’ve left all over the sidewalk, the screams from good samaritans and passer-bys only increases. You notice someone filming the scene on their cell and you quickly whip out a flurry of dust, crippling the cell and the devices of anyone near you.

Calmly, you begin walking around the back of Dee’s casino, again. You’d managed to protect your bag of tricks, mid-fall, when you’d woken up from the blow to your head. The only advantage you had right now was that Dee had clearly underestimated you, though only after you’d done the same with him.

Still, you weren’t the one who was about to get doused in three parts Elixir of Life, one part angel grace and one part holy oil. Dee was.

Not having to knock out half the staff again, meant it takes you no time at all to reach the elevator and take it back up to the top floor. You know you have to go and help Crowley, but you figure you might as well get the job done before you head to his rescue.

Finding Dee’s bedroom and his personal safe doesn’t take you long and you carefully apply a strong acid to the safe’s locking chamber and wait for it to eat through the metal enough before you carefully apply enough of a strong alkali to stop the process. The safe door swings open and your prize is the first thing you see.

A perfectly preserved werewolf paw, transformed, mounted inside a glass case. You pick the case out of the safe and put it in your bag. Now it was time to deal with Dee and maybe save Crowley if he needed saving.

*

Reaching the rooftop garden, you palm an angel blade from your bag you quickly stab four of the nearest demons, surprising them, before reaching Crowley and standing in front of him. You glance down and see the devil’s trap carved into the stone and sigh, before pulling out your latest spray bottle.

The liquid has a slight bluish tint and you can see a degree of worried puzzlement on both Dee’s face and the face of the demon that chucked you over the rooftop less than twenty minutes ago. The two demons clearly don’t know what to think.

“As you can see,” Crowley drawled from behind you, “my associate, Lady Turner, is most certainly pissed off.”

You heft the bottle threateningly towards Dee and his demon pal. Watching a slight instinctual fear fill their eyes.

“Have they called Abaddon?” you ask Crowley, not taking your eyes off of Dee and the other demon.

“No,” Crowley replies.

“Are they likely to if we leave them here?”

“Most definitely.”

Dee speaks up, “Now, just a moment, maybe I won’t have to-”

You pump the bottle’s trigger down and the liquid mists out towards Dee and his demon pal, the night breeze carrying it towards them. As the substance touches the skin of their hosts, nothing seems to happen.

“We’re not cats,” Dee taunts.

“Give it a sec,” you reply.

The demon that threw you off the roof is the first one to scream. The noise is otherworldly, and slightly animal like, as the demon’s skin begins to become covered in nasty black boils, Dee isn’t far behind.

“Sorry, but, I don’t want you to go running anywhere,” you say as you stride over to their now cowering forms. You can hear the sounds of them trying to escape their hosts, but it’s no good, the spray is containing them. You switch the nozzle to a concentrated setting and then pull the trigger. A jet of the bluish liquid gushes over the demon that had thrown you and you now step away as fire erupts all over his body and black tar spills out of his mouth, nose, eyes and ears.

Turning your attention to Dee, still cowering in pain on the slabs of his desert oasis, you pull the bottle trigger without a second thought. You ignore the sounds the demon makes as you spin round to Crowley and put the bottle down. You note a look of appreciation in his eyes as you use the angel blade to scratch a small line across the out line of the devil’s trap.

“There,” you say, before grabbing the bottle and quickly dumping its remains over what’s left of Dee’s body. You know Crowley won’t want to drive back to Lebanon with that riding in the Chevy with you.

Discarding the bottle, you’re about to turn back to Crowley when you feel his hands grab you by the side of your arms and painfully spin you so that you’re facing him.

“What in all manner of nine hells was that?” Crowley hisses.

“Three parts Elixir, one part angel grace and one part holy oil,” you explain matter of factly.

You watch Crowley study you closely, his face searching yours for something.

Finally, Crowley speaks up. “Promise me, Y/N, that you will never use that on me.”

Looking into the King of Hell’s eyes, you see real fear there. “What’s it worth to you?”

“You’re trying to make a deal with me?!” Crowley cries in disbelief.

“Seems like the thing to do.”

“You’re immortal and have all the gold you could ever want!”

“True, but those aren’t things I necessarily need.”

Crowley lets go of your arms and puts his hands through his well-kept hair in frustration. “What on God’s green Earth, could you possibly, fucking, need?!” He yells.

You know something has to be done, before it all goes too far. So you use some of the last bits of goodness in you, to ask a big ask, a really big ask, considering all the unholy crap reigning down in the form of Abaddon, the Mark, the fallen angels and the hunt for the First Blade.

“Crowley, I need you to help me get my soul back.”


	8. Tattletale

 

> There was madness in any direction, at any hour.

_Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream_ , Hunter S. Thompson

Driving the Chevy back to the Bunker, Crowley, kept looking over at Y/N. She was too quiet. His head was almost clear of human blood, almost, but even the demon that he was knew that he was in a safer position if Y/N had her soul back, or at least that which had wandered off.

It was when his phone began buzzing in his pocket about part way down I-70 E that he knew that one part of Y/N’s original plan was no longer going to work. Skillfully, he picked the phone out of his pocket and answered it before cradling it between his right shoulder and ear.

“Moose,” Crowley said. “Woah, woah, no need to send out a search team! Y/N’s with me.”

“If you touch one hair on her…” Sam’s voice yelled angrily.

“Sam, it’s not like that at all. We are on our way back to the Bunker now. Please, for once, could you just stop threatening to end me?”

“Put Y/N on, I want to speak with her.”

Crowley glanced over at Y/N, who looked completely disinterested in the conversation. Crowley kept one hand on the wheel as he uncradled his phone and nudged Y/N with it. “Hey, Sam wants to talk to you.”

Y/N wearily picked up the phone and held it to her ear.

“Hi Sam,” she said, her voice dull.

Crowley kept glancing at Y/N as he drove and she talked. He would have teleported her straight back to the Bunker, but apparently the chest didn’t handle that kind of thing well and so they were driving the Chevy all the way back to Kansas.

“No, no, Crowley hasn’t done anything to me… But, um, we need to have a talk when I get back to the Bunker……… Okay, sure I will stay safe……… Um yeah, I love you too.” Y/N hung up and passed Crowley’s phone back to him.

*

It took them over sixteen hours, but eventually Crowley was pulling up Y/N’s Chevy outside the Bunker. Sam and Dean were waiting outside, having spent the night in a nearby motel, due to Y/N still having the key.

Crowley noted with a slightly too human pang, that the first thing Y/N did was hand over the key to Sam. Sam just threw it at Dean before pulling Y/N into a big hug.

“I was so scared,” Crowley heard Sam whisper to Y/N. “I thought something really bad had happened to you.”

Crowley cleared his throat and Sam looked up at him, a low anger burning in his eyes. Dean was approaching them again, the Bunker door open, and Sam gently passed Y/N to Dean so that she could be taken inside.

“What now?” Sam asked.

“I don’t think you fully understand the situation here,” Crowley said, his voice grave.

“Well then help me understand,” Sam replied, his nostrils flaring .

“Dear Y/N appears to have lost most of her soul. I assume that she’s been seeming more and more… morally ambivalent as the weeks have passed?”

“How did yo-”

“We went to Vegas, Sam. We went to Vegas and she tortured an angel so that she could get some residual grace and then she went on to torture and kill two demons. No thought for the demons’ vessels, I might add.”

The look on Sam’s face told Crowley that this didn’t seem like completely unheard of news.

“Do you think it’s the Philosopher’s Stone?” Sam asked, the anger dying from his voice.

Crowley licked his lips, before he replied, “I would say that’s what started it. When she tapped her soul, it’s entirely possible that she didn’t seal things back up, so to speak. Now, she wants me to help her to find her soul. And the best way I can think of doing that is by telling you what the hell is going on and having you look for it.”

Crowley was about to leave, when Sam asked, “And the First Blade?”

“Yes, I will take care of that if you take care of things here.”

And he was gone.

*

Back in his hotel room, the space he had previously been sitting in for weeks, doing nothing, Crowley sat and looked around at the mess he had made. Empty pouches of blood were strewn over one table. The demon he had been shacking up with, Lola, was in the bedroom.

But then Crowley looked down, between his feet and saw the fresh box of blood he’d obtained for himself. He wasn’t quite ready to help.

Not yet.

No.


	9. Denial

 

 

> The decision to flee came suddenly. Or maybe not. Maybe I’d planned it all along--subconsciously waiting for the right moment. The bill was a factor, I think. Because I had no money to pay it.

_Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream_ , Hunter S. Thompson

It was late. Sam tried desperately to fix a smile on his face as he trooped back from the kitchen. But his words to Dean kept echoing through his mind:

“And that... is the problem. You think you're my savior, my brother, the hero...”

It had been a tough last few hunts and things weren’t getting any easier. He could feel a weight upon him that he could not shift: from Metatron’s machinations, to worrying over the First Blade and the Mark, to wondering when Abaddon might just pop her head up again and now… Sam stopped just outside his slightly open bedroom door and peered through the gap.

Y/N was sat up in bed, t-shirt on, novel in her hands. She looked engrossed, but Sam already knew that she wouldn’t be getting any sleep, she’d already tried that. While he didn’t clearly remember his time without a soul, he could still remember his lack of sleeping being brought up by both Dean and Bobby… and a string of women he’d slept with back then.

Forcing a small smile, Sam gently opened his bedroom door the rest of the way and walked inside, closing it behind him.

“Hey,” he called over to Y/N.

“Hey.”

“Whatcha reading?” Sam asked as he began to strip down to his t-shirt and boxers.

“Fear and Loathing in Las Vegas: A Savage Journey to the Heart of the American Dream... I bought it from a thrift store a few weeks back. I’m about halfway through.”

“Can’t say I’ve ever read it… Probably should.”

“You can borrow it once I’m done. ‘Course, considering my current views of the world, due to my existential crisis, it’s probably not the most suitable thing for me to be reading.”

“How so?” Sam asked as he climbed into bed and tried to cuddle up to Y/N. While she did put an arm around him, Sam could feel just that little less warmth from her.

“It’s a very selfish bit of gonzo journalism. And everything Thompson and his attorney get up to in it is just… it sounds really, really good, to me. Though I don’t recommend helping a demon hallucinate about bats.”

Sam looked up at Y/N, concern creasing his brow. “You sound like you’re talking from experience.”

Y/N put the book down. “I gave Crowley a ‘potion’,” she replied, emphasising the word “potion” with her free hand, “and Crowley saw giant bats in the sky. And this would have been fine, if the bats hadn’t become real and then eaten the hitchhiker that had been riding with us.”

Sam shifted and took Y/N’s face in his hands, his eyes were wide in alarm. “You killed a hitchhiker?!”

“Technically, Crowley did. Though they appeared to be attracted to movement, so when Tom jumped out of the car and started running away from the bats that probably contributed to him being eaten,” answered Y/N, without recoiling.

Unsure what to do, but knowing it would be unsafe to drive Y/N away, Sam drew her into reassuring a kiss and was surprised by how intensely Y/N kissed him back. But there was no love behind Y/N’s kisses, not like before. Instead Sam could tell that each eager nip, suck and clash of tongues was fuelled purely by lust and Y/N’s id.

Feeling himself getting hard, Sam didn’t resist Y/N when she suddenly reached under the sheets and pulled down his underwear, before quickly straddling him and lowering herself onto his throbbing cock, letting it push her wet folds aside. He was glad that it was just Y/N and him this time, but as Y/N began to lift herself up and down, using his shoulders as leverage, Sam felt chilled by the lack of love in Y/N’s eyes as she stared into his.

Y/N bounced on Sam, her affections and actions selfish. Sam repeatedly tried to kiss her, but Y/N would only kiss him when she wanted to. And she would complain each time he tried to alter their rhythm, to try and slow her down so that he didn’t come too soon. Instead of drawing things out, Y/N mercilessly lifted herself up and down on his cock, not asking Sam at all what he wanted. When he felt Y/N’s walls clench around him for a third time, Sam was close to coming, but then Y/N - without warning - lifted herself off of Sam, without letting him come. She walked out of the bedroom as if nothing was wrong, nothing covering her backside. Not a single word said.

Sam painfully cradled his slick, hard cock, as he listened to Y/N’s footsteps march in the direction of the bathroom. The moment gone and Y/N’s behavior so bizarre, Sam let himself go soft, rather than finish himself off.

Pulling his underwear back up and shifting over to one side of his bed, Sam laid down, curling up, and pulled the sheets tightly around him. And as the first sob wracked its way through him, he turned his face towards his pillow, and let the fabric and softness take his tears and his cries of anguish. He wasn’t angry, but he hadn’t felt so overwhelmed since Jess had died. Sam wasn’t sure if his heart was breaking, but he didn’t want to go on like this for any longer than he had to, but that meant tracking down Y/N’s soul and he wasn’t sure where to start and, ‘What about Abaddon, the Mark, the Blade, Metatron?’ He thought to himself.

The bed shifted gently beside Sam and a hand lightly touched him. “Sammy?” Asked Y/N’s voice.

Pulling away from the pillow, Sam wiped his face on the sheets and looked up into the face of Y/N. Her gaze was warmer than it had been, but it was put on.

“Are you okay?” Y/N asked.

“I just need some sleep, it’s been a long few days.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As ever, I enjoyed writing this part. I'm sorry to anyone who doesn't like reading about Sam crying.
> 
> Don't forget to check out [Dreams from the Bunker](http://dreamsfromthebunker.tumblr.com/).


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